


Seeking Asylum

by Chimie_Chat



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Green Lantern - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, The Flash - All Media Types, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Children, Children in therapy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-18 22:50:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18127532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimie_Chat/pseuds/Chimie_Chat
Summary: Superheros are known for being strong because of their origin stories. But no one ever considers the amount of care they should have gotten as children.Dr. Leslie Thompkins is a child psychologist, who runs a weekly group therapy session for children struggling with adjustments, loss, and socializing. Her most recent group may be the most damaged yet, but she has hope that each and every one of them will turn out alright.





	Seeking Asylum

“My Pops is the bestest pilot in the world!” Hal grinned wide, crossing his arms behind his head and leaned back into the plush fabric of the gray suede couch. “He’s fearless! He’s the kind of pilot that’ll— He’ll fly up super high! Like, super duper high! Higher than any other pilot.”

“That’s very brave of him.” Dr. Leslie Thompkins smiled at the young boy sitting across from her, writing small notes into a yellow legal pad. “You want to be like him?”

“Of course I do!” The nine year old puffed his chest out, as if that would somehow make him look tougher. “My Pop’s is fearless. He’s like a superhero!”

“I’m sure.” Dr. Thompkins placed her notepad down on the little side table next to her. She took in a slow breath, uncrossed her legs, and leaned forward so her elbows were on her knees. “Hal. You’re using the present tense again.”

“Huh?”

The therapist rubbed at her chin, then concealed a sigh. “You keep using the word ‘is’ when talking about your father. You need to start using ‘was’.”

The smiled on the boy’s face instantly faded. His hands fell into his lap, as his eyes started tearing up. “But I don’t wanna.”

“I know you don’t.” Leslie stood from her seat, grabbing the box of Kleenex tissues off of her desk. She knelt by Hal’s side, placing the box in her patient’s lap. “But denial will only make you feel worse as time goes on.”

“But if I—” Hal pulled out a tissue, balling it up in his hands. “If I say that, then h-he’s really gone.”

“It’s going to be really hard, and I know how sad you are.” Dr. Thompkins watched as Hal started ripping up the tissue until it was practically shredded. The scraps built up in a pile in the boy’s lap, as if he were making a little nest. “You don’t have to forget those happy memories, Hal. Your father can still be your hero.”

He shook his head, grabbing a second tissue once the first had been completely torn up. This time, he actually used it to rub at his nose, wiping away a dribble of snot. “I don’t want him to be gone.” Hal’s voice was hoarse. It was clear as day that the child was doing everything he could to keep from crying. “I’m scared without him.”

“Sometimes being afraid is a good thing.”

“Pops was never afraid of nothin’.”

* * *

 

A pair of chunky, black glasses frames were folded and unfolded between pudgy fingers as Clark frowned at the object. “I don’t actually need these, ya know.”

“Really?” Dr. Thompkins tipped her head to the side. She noticed fingerprint smudges on the lenses of her patient’s glasses, and quickly reached into her pocket for the microfiber pocket square she used to clear her own glasses, and passed it over to the boy.

“Oh. Thank you ma’am.” The thick Kansas drawl was odd to hear in the voice of a child, but the ten year old was always so polite. It fit him. Clark took the clothe and started rubbing away the blots. When he was finished, he folded it up, and passed it back to the psychologist.

Leslie placed the handkerchief on the arm of her chair; just in case. “So if you don’t need glasses, then why do you wear them?”

“Ma and Pa make me. They say I gotta.” Clark carefully tucked the spectacles into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt.

“And why would they say that?”

“Cause…” The boy looked over at the window in the little office, his eyes trained up at the barest hint of sky. “Did ya know ‘m different?”

Dr. Thompkins rose a brow. She pulled the pencil out from its place behind her ear, holding it carefully as she prepared to take notes. “Different how?”

“I ain’t-- I mean, I’m not from around here.” For such a large kid -- he’d always been big for his age -- Clark constantly managed to shrink deep into the couch cushions, slouching just enough to make himself look small again.

“Is this about how you were adopted?” The therapist circled a note from her last session with this boy. “Clark, being adopted doesn’t make you different. More than one hundred _thousand_ kids are adopted in the US each year. You’re a very normal kid.”

“But I ain’t-- I mean, I’m not normal.” He frowned, fisting his hands into his baggy jeans. “I’m different.”

Dr. Thompkins looked the boy’s posture over, noting the clear frustration. “Why are you different then?”

Clark looked around, specifically looking at the door, as if he were checking to see if anyone could be listening in. He then looked back to the woman sitting across from him. “Can you keep a secret?”

* * *

 

“I’m technically a princess.”

“So I’ve heard.” Leslie Thompkins smiled at the curly haired girl who sat in the arm chair. Out of all her patients, Diana Prince was the only one who ever chose the chair instead of the sofa.

“I’m told that’s strange.” The girl shrugged. Her hands smoothed carefully over her white linen dress, coming to the braided leather belt around her waist. “I don’t understand why people find facts strange.”

“Who tells you that?”

Diana flexed her ankles, pointing her toes downward until they were able to just barely reach the floor. She smiled to herself at this small accomplishment, before turning serious once more. “Other children. I met them at the-- πως λες… A park of sorts, with structures to climb on?”

“A playground?”

“Yes!” Diana clapped her hands together. “I met them at a playground.”

The first thing Dr. Thompkins noticed upon meeting Diana was that the girl was extremely mature for her age. A smooth greek accent and a recently acquired grasp of the english language often made people overlook just how smart the girl was; they mistook a lack of fluency for idiocy. “Why do you think those children found you strange?”

“I don’t know.” A sigh left Diana’s lips. She crossed one leg over the other and propped her elbow up on the arm of the chair, her cheek pushing up against the palm of her hand. “I didn’t know any of their games. But I’m a quick learner.”

“I know you are.”

“And I said I was a princess.” A frown fell on Diana’s face. “But I wasn’t lying.”

“Did you tell them that?” Leslie asked, jotting down a quick note to work with Diana on playground activities later on.

“Of course I did!” The young girl huffed. She muttered something in greek under her breath, before messing with her belt once more. “I told them my mother is the queen of Themyscira, and that it’s an island of only girls.”

“How did they respond to that?”

“Well… They laughed.” Her frown returned. She chewed on her lower lip briefly, before forcing herself to stop, as if she was trying to bring an end to a bad habit. “They said you can’t have an island of only woman, because then no children would be born.”

It was odd that any children at a playground would know have children were born, but perhaps they were older. Diana tended to gravitate towards those older than her, rather than younger. Dr. Tompkins glanced down at her notes, then back at Diana. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them the truth. My mother carved me from clay.”

Dr. Thompkins made sure to keep a straight face. Parents told their kids all kinds of things at this age rather than giving them a proper “talk”. This wasn’t the most unusual story the therapist had heard. “And they continued to laugh at you.”

“Yes.” Diana nodded. “They laughed, and called me stupid.”

“You and I both know that’s not true. You’ve a very smart young girl.” The shift in the girl’s posture was clear as day as she soaked in the praise she was given. Leslie watched at Diana sat up straighter, her smile once again returning to her. “So then. How did you handle it when they called you those things?”

“I hit them.”

* * *

 

Crayons absolutely littered the floor, seemingly randomly, and yet the blond child laying on his stomach on the floor of Dr. Leslie Thompkins’ office apparently knew exactly where every color he needed was. The therapist watched as one of her younger patients drew a large, brightly colored lightning bolt across the center of the page. Every shade of yellow the boy had access to was used. An outsider would likely think that a lightning bolt in a child’s drawing was innocent enough. But Dr. Thompkins knew better.

The boy sat up, looking around at the assortment of crayons he’d spread out, then pointed at a magenta one by his therapist’s foot. Leslie leaned down from her chair, picking up the drawing instrument, and passed it back to the boy. “Here you go, Barry.”

He muttered a soft thank you as he took the object, then turned back to his art work. At the very bottom of the page, directly under the point of the lightning bolt, Barry started drawing a crude figure of a woman, laying down on her back judging from the positioning on the stick figure. Dr. Thompkins took note of how the boy seemed to take extra care as he drew the figure. Little sniffled could be heard, before Barry pushed himself up, walked across the office, and grabbed a cup on water on the desk with both hands. He took a big sip, then turned on his heels, and raced back to his spot on the floor.

“You can take your time, Barry.” Dr. Thompkins reassured him. “You have plenty of time. Even if you don’t finish today, you can always finish it next time.”

Barry looked at her and nodded, before picking up a red and scribbling various splotches around the figure he’d drawn. The boy looked down at the drawing in silence for a minute, before picking up a golden yellow so he could give his character hair. Once he’d decided he was finished with her, he drew two little X’s where her eyes would be in black.

Dr. Thompkins watched as Barry held the black crayon in one hand, and found an orange to hold in the other. Off to the side of the page, he started drawing a new figure; a man dressed in all orange. “Is that your father?” The only response she got was a nod.

The expression Barry gave to this father-figure could only be described as tragic. A frown so big it wasn’t able to fully fit on the oval head was accompanied with large blue teardrops; so many that they ran all the way to the bottom of the page.

Barry put his his crayon’s down, and just studied the picture he’d drawn. A scowl grew on his face, as he grabbed yet another yellow crayon, and started going over the lightning bolt again. He started drawing faster, pressing down harder, and harder, and harder until-- _snap._

The blond boy’s eyes went wide as he looked down at the broken crayon in his hands. He was completely shocked, sitting upright, and just staring at it. His little body started trembling, little sniffles leaving him as he did his best to keep from crying.

Leslie jumped to action. Going to her desk and grabbing the box of tissues, as well as a brand new box of crayons. “It’s ok to cry, Barry.” She sat down on the floor next to him, holding a tissue up for him. The boy leaned forward and blew his nose in it. He grabbed a second one and wiped his face, before balling it up in his fist. “There you go. Here. I know you hate the broken ones. Here’s a brand new box for you.”

The little boy took the new crayons into his hands, dropping his used tissue, turning the box over and seeing that it was unopened. Barry clutched the box close to his chest, and looked down at his drawing again.

“Are you done?” Dr. Tompkins slowly reached forward, just barely touching the piece of paper, just in case Barry changed his mind. Once again, the boy only nodded. “Thank you for drawing today, Barry.”

“I….”

She waited patiently, letting Barry take his time to form the words he wanted to say.

“I should have… I should have been faster.”

* * *

 

_Tick - Tock - Tick - Tock_

It was moments like these, when the second hand on the clock hanging on the was the deafeningly loud, that Dr. Thompkins considered switching to a digital clock. She sat in her usual chair, watching the young boy on her couch sit in absolute silence.

_Tick - Tock_

The boy sat as still as a statue, dressed in a fitted black suit that looked much too adult for a child; much too stiff. Jet black hair was perfectly groomed, combed with an impeccable part and clearly gelled so not a strand was out of place. Even the tie around his neck was straitened and snug against the fabric of a dress shirt that likely cost more than Leslie’s entire outfit. The boy kept his eyes down at his hands in his lap, watching as he twisted an oversized ring on his right hand.

_Tick - Tock - Tick - Tock_

Bruce Wayne; the most difficult case Dr. Thompkins had ever worked with. After nearly two years of trying to treat the child, he never spoke a word during their sessions. He merely greeted her when he arrived, and thanked her when his guardian arrived to pick him up. But during this hour they spent together, he never said a word.

It wasn’t uncommon for patients to be silent, especially with children. Therapy took trust, and some waited until that trust was formed before they would share their stories and thoughts. From what Dr. Thompkins knew of young Bruce’s troubles, and from the time she’s spent with him, she wouldn’t be surprised if that trust never formed.

_Tick - Tock - Tick - Tock - Tick - Tock_

Some weeks Bruce would bring a book, or his homework, and Leslie would watch as the boy effortlessly filled out worksheets, or scribbled notes in the margins. He never asked for help. No. He never asked for help. That being said, she would always offer; Always comment on how smart he was when she noticed him working on something high above his grade level. In instances when she wasn’t able to have conversations with her patients, she liked to at least encourage them.

_Tick - Tock_

Bruce glanced up at the clock, and Dr. Thompkins could just see his irises follow the second hand, before her attention was drawn back to his lap. Joining the sound of the clock, was the sound of the young boy cracking his knuckles, one by one, in time with the counter.

“Do you always crack your knuckles?” She asked, cutting into the silence.

Bruce looked back at her with his brows knit together, before looking back down at his hands. He seemed to frown to himself. It wasn’t the look of a child, but of an adult trying to break an age old habit.

Dr. Thompkins took note of that. “Did you know it’s been proven that cracking your knuckles isn’t actually bad for you?”

The boy didn’t give any kind of response, not even a nod.

_Tick - Tock - Tick - Tock_

As much as she would love to sit here with Bruce for as long as he needed, and wait until _he_ was ready to speak to her, Dr. Thompkins was coming to the conclusion that their sessions together were not going to help. It didn’t take much more than a look at how dark and clouded his eyes were to know that Bruce had plenty he needed to get off his chest, it was just a matter of how. How could she possibly convince this ten year old, after nearly two years of failed attempts at getting him to speak, that it was alright to trust others and share his story?

_Tick - Tock - Tick - Tock_

Bruce trained his eyes on the clock once more, likely mentally counting down the last few minutes before their time together was up. Once again, Leslie held her breath, just hoping that her patient might find his voice just in the knick of time.

_Tick - Tock - Tick --_

They were not so lucky this time.

Bruce stood up from his seat the moment the hour hit. He fastened the button of his suit jacket, and Dr. Thompkins resigned to closing her notebook once more.

“I’d like to speak to your guardian before you leave today, Bruce. It’ll be quick.” She stood up herself, and walked around to her desk, rifling through a manila folder before pulling out a folded pamphlet. Once she had what she needed, she went to open her office door. She let Bruce lead the way out, back towards the waiting room.

Standing in the waiting room -- Always standing, never sitting -- was a tall gentleman in a similarly tailored suit to Bruce’s, whom Leslie had become decently acquainted with over the years. “Master Bruce.” The man’s cockney accent fit the man’s apparel quite well. “How was your session today, sir?”

“Fine, Alfred.” They were the first words Dr. Thompkins had heard from the boy in the past hour.

“Very good, sir.” The butler smiled at his charge, before glancing at the therapist. “Dr. Thompkins. Thank you once more.”

“It’s always a pleasure to see Bruce, Mr. Pennyworth.” She gave the pair a smile. “I was wondering if I could speak to you real quick. It’ll just take a minute.”

“Of course.” The gentleman nodded. “Why don’t you wait here, Master Bruce?”

“Yes, Alfred.”

Dr. Thompkins lead the way back to her office, stepping inside but not fully shutting the door even after Alfred joined her. “I had an idea I’d like to try with Bruce. He’s clearly troubled, but even after all this time I don’t think he wants to talk to me about what he’s experiencing.”

“Master Bruce has been on the quiet side for a while now.” Alfred sighed. He lifted a hand to run his thumb and forefinger over a mustache that was just starting to show flecks of gray. “He still isn’t talking to you?”

“Unfortunately not.” She shook his head. “I don’t want either of you to waste time or money on therapy sessions that don’t work.”

“With all do respect, money isn’t exactly a question ma’am.”

“I understand. But it wouldn’t sit well on my conscious.” Dr. Thompkins held out a pamphlet to the gentleman.

He took it and looked over the page, before looking back up with one eyebrow quirked. “Children’s group therapy?”

“It’s a new group that starts up in about two weeks.” Leslie nodded, leaning back on her desk and crossing her arms low on her torso. “Group therapy is proven to work well in adults struggling with a number of ailments. I think that what Bruce needs is a change to talk to children-- _peers_ , really, who are going through similar experiences of loss and sudden change. It could be an opportunity for him to realize he isn’t alone, and start rebuilding that foundation of trust and safety with people more his age.”

Alfred looked over the pamphlet once more. “You believe this will help him?”

“I believe it would be good to at least show him he’s not alone.” she nodded. “It’s a four week session to start, so if it doesn’t work, then we can restart one-on-one therapy afterwards.”

The butler nodded, before folding the handout twice more, and sliding it into the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll speak to Master Bruce about this, and give him a slight push to agree to it.”

“Just give my office a call and let me know.” Dr. Thompkins pushed off of her desk and gestured for Alfred to walk out. “Thank you again for bringing Bruce by.”

“No, Dr. Thompkins. Thank you.”

 


End file.
